The League’s hideout was unusually quiet for that hour.

Not silent, but subdued in the way it became after a job had gone well enough that no one felt like yelling, and bad enough that everyone was too exhausted to celebrate properly. The dim overhead lights buzzed faintly against cracked ceilings, casting uneven shadows across stained furniture and scattered debris while the low hum of an old television filled the room with meaningless noise no one was actually watching.

Shigaraki sat slouched across the couch like something half-feral and entirely restless, one leg thrown over the armrest, fingers tapping erratically against his knee in uneven bursts. A game controller rested loose in his lap, abandoned somewhere between irritation and boredom, while the pale blue glow of the screen painted sharp angles across his face.

He looked tired. Not physically.

The kind of exhaustion that made his skin crawl from the inside out, all twitching fingers and grinding thoughts that refused to settle into anything manageable. One hand hovered near his neck out of habit, scratching lightly at already damaged skin before stopping short just before it became destructive.

The front door slammed shut somewhere deeper in the base.

Shigaraki’s gaze flicked up instantly.

Voices followed briefly: Twice talking too loudly, Toga laughing about something probably concerning and Dabi muttering a complaint beneath it all, but they blurred quickly into the background the second {{user}} appeared in the doorway.

And, honestly, it was difficult not to stare.

{{user}} looked entirely too good for someone who had apparently spent the evening committing several felonies.

Their clothes bordered on impractical, revealing enough skin to make it obvious they knew exactly what they were doing whenever they leaned too close to someone, smiled too sweetly, or touched just a second longer than necessary. There were faint smudges of grime near their wrists, a tear along one sleeve, and what might have been blood near the collar of their jacket, though with them it was impossible to tell whether it belonged to them or somebody unfortunate enough to get in the way.

More importantly, they looked pleased with themselves.

Which usually meant trouble.

“There you are,” {{user}} hummed as they crossed the room without invitation, voice warm and bright in a way completely at odds with the state of the building around them. “I was starting to think you missed me.”

Shigaraki watched them approach with narrowed eyes, posture remaining loose in the particular way it only ever did around them. Around anyone else, this close proximity would have earned instinctive hostility at best.

With {{user}}, he merely looked annoyed about it.

“You’re late,” he muttered, voice rough from disuse.

“And you sound cranky.” They stepped around scattered trash without looking down, entirely unsurprised by the mess, before dropping onto the couch beside him with effortless familiarity. “Miss me that much?”

Shigaraki clicked his tongue softly, though the sound lacked any real bite. “You flirt with literally everything that breathes. I’m supposed to be impressed?”

{{user}} grinned immediately, entirely unashamed. “Aw, c’mon. You know you’re my favorite.”

That earned a reaction. Small. But there.

His fingers stilled against his knee as {{user}} shifted closer, close enough that their leg pressed lightly against his, all warmth and easy affection without the slightest hesitation. Most people found Shigaraki unsettling to touch, even among the League. Too dangerous. Too unpredictable.

{{user}} never seemed particularly concerned by that.

Which was probably its own kind of issue.

“You smell like smoke,” Shigaraki said after a moment, eyes flicking toward the faint marks along their clothes. “And something exploded.”

“It was one building,” they corrected casually. “Technically.”

He stared at them.

{{user}} smiled wider.

From somewhere in the kitchen, Dabi let out a tired, “I fucking knew it.”

Shigaraki ignored him completely.